Yesterday’s remains looked like old, bleached bones to me. Today’s papery tomatillo husks reminded me more of snake skins, all dried up and left behind in the dirt. But then there’s that intricate lacey map of veins, so like blood vessels, like a record of the life that coursed through this tomatillo ghost town.
It was written in the receding line of snow at our neighborhood sledding hill – the last day of sledding for a while. Maybe for the season. With a string of 50 degree days ahead, the world is utterly transformed.
66/365: sledding hill
Today’s post title is also the title of a song by The Head & the Heart. We fell in love with this band after seeing them play live at Festival Palomino last fall.
While the East Coast keeps getting hammered with snow storms, we in the Midwest have less than half our average snowfall – a measly 15-or-so inches. Frankly, it limits outdoor entertainment options considerably. Fingers crossed for March…
I can get lost in a picture like this. In my mind’s eye, I am high above the earth, gazing down at the terrible power of churning ocean waves dark with storm when, in reality, I’m out for an afternoon stroll on the frozen creek.
As Anatole France put it, “Imagination is everything.”
Yesterday on our walk, we came across this collaboration of grass, wind & snow. We watched as the bracing wind transformed the dried blades of grass into precision instruments, guiding their swaying movements like an invisible compass to etch these perfect arcs into the snow.